Posted by Christopher America
The following comes to you from atop a high horse.
If you must know I’m not crazy enough to ride an actual horse, so instead I baked out the stable with Black Beauty still inside of it.
There’s going to be quite a few of them so get tucked in and pull them blankets tight.
The BIGGEST show of the year.
IN FACT, SO BIG IT GETS ANOTHER DAB.
The end all, be all for every wrestler in the High Octane locker room. If you’re not on the card you might as well be doing stats in the Archives. That said, and since Doozer is away counting sheep in the basement, it’s the glory and prestige of an Iconic Battle Royal for me. Which roughly translates to sheer chaos, honor being thrown out the window, and thieves circling around every ring post.
Just my game.
And what might be the fabulously grandiose prize for surviving and outlasting all else who dare swim in such tumultuous water you ask?
…the winner gets to name a group in the big tourney starting in January.
I hope you were sitting down for that.
Well, then. I guess only one question remains.
What shall I name the cluster of tumors joining me in the chase of honoring one of our own? Yes, that is to say it is a foregone conclusion that I, Cancer Jiles, wins the upcoming, soon to be widely lauded, Iconic Battle Royal.
Spoilers be damned!
Maybe I’ll name my luxurious prize just that– The Tumors.
Better yet, Cancer J and the Tumors!
I can see it now…
…Me and MY group form a band of sorts. It works out for them since they’ll be needing something to do in February anyway. Of course I’d be on lead vocals, and if fate would have it Shell Jr. could strum the Yolkulele with Tambourine Ted shaking some leaves. We can all go out to the ring together and play sets during the commercial breaks. Then, eventually, the band’s final gig culminates with the playing of my entrance music for the Cup Final.
And who knows?
Maybe we’ll all get lucky and Stevens can bang on a drum.
What a gas.
What. A. Hoot.
Name your own fucking group.
YOUR. OWN. GROUP.
Maybe, instead of Cancer J and the Tumors I’ll choose to name MY fancy blue ribbon, The Group of Bandits. Though, that one might be a little too on the nose and scare some potential prospects away. Perhaps something simpler. The Group of Deaths.
Too hand shaky.
I got it.
I’ll name it…
The Candy Colored Cardinals Group.
Fast Teddy Savitz and Ruxpin’s Dirty Undies Group.
Teddy to Rumble Group.
Kael’s Colestemy Kids Group.
The Not Mad He Left You the Yolkulele in the Will Group.
Sutler! Hardly Knew Her! Group.
No to all of them. They don’t work. I have dignity coursing through these veins. It’s not like I, The Grand Maestro, First of his Name, could or would be so petty, arrogant, and self loathing that I’d name my group after who I had beaten. Let alone who I had beaten to even earn the right to name the group in the first place!
Truth is I haven’t decided what to name MY group yet. Cancer J and the Tumors has heart, but it does not have a soul. Plus, outside of Red Dead Ted and Sutler the Butler, I don’t know who else is going to partake in this thing. Though, now that it is abundantly clear that I am partaking in this thing I do wonder how many more will jump at the chance to join me.
Sorry for scaring off the competition, Lee.
However, it is always fun to speculate.
I mentioned Stevens earlier as a potential drummer boy in Cancer J and Tumors. I know he might be indisposed, but he’s made miraculous comebacks before. I wouldn’t put it past the pale faced robot to beam his way down to the ring and begin that long trek to becoming a star once more.
Futile as it would be.
Still, it is Iconic.
Speaking of futile, there’s a chance a young, foolish, former Bandit upstart named Zebulon Marteen decides to cast his rod on the night of nights.
Don’t forget the bait.
Cards on the table and jokes aside, I want Zeb in the match. Not because I want to cheat him again, but because he should at the very least afford himself the opportunity to get his mojo back. It isn’t easy losing to me. You start to wonder about yourself, and if it’s worth getting back up on that horse.
Not Black Beauty.
Now, that’s not me saying I’m going to lay down like the first time the two of us met inside the ring. No sir. Not me. Not this time. I said “speaking of futile” when first referencing him if you’ve forgotten the bait. Fear not, my future fellow tournament goers. IF my youngest friend is to be both daring and bold, I will promise all of you this; you’ll have every opportunity to thank me that you weren’t in the Big Mouth Bass Group.
If the shoe fits. No wait. If the bobber bobs.
And how’s about the Natural Immortal, Darin Zionaught?
AKA, my kryptonite.
Honestly, I hope Big Dee stays away from the festivities. He’s the one guy I would worry about if he were to join me in battling royally. The mother fucker has punched my ticket way too many times, and in this maddening setting it is almost a given he would do so again. If he doesn’t stay away, well here’s to hoping that Teddy Boo-Boo or The Fonz get to him before he does me.
And what of Dashing Darin’s pen pal, Brian Hollywood? Will he be Brazen Brian and toss his name into the hat? I don’t know. I do know that if he does I will go out of my way to make sure he doesn’t stain the Denucci Cup before it starts with some mundane group name like…
The Hollywood Boiz.
Again, you can thank me later.
When you’re a speculative Tumor, and not a Boi, Bass, Kid, or Cardinal.
Don’t go crying back to your daddy when I slap the Kael out of your mouth.
Oh look, my gloves.